AUC, NYC, and Snoopy-Slag

It was a dark and snowy night.

Dark because it was, well, night. (Snoopy might ought to work on that bit.) Snowy, though, was different.

It was our first real snow of the season (though it's melted now). I finally got to wear my snow boots, which have been hanging around with the tag on them for a year and a half. But I didn't wear those to last night's American University in Cairo student documentary event at the Tribeca Grand Hotel. That required a vague semblance of glamor, which was traumatic as after trying on everything in my closet, I discovered that ten extra pounds make one's clothes not fit. Imagine that.

I'd missed the June screening in Cairo by an ocean and a few weeks, so a little snow and poorly fitted clothing was not going to stop me from seeing the presentation last night.

The pieces themselves were charming, each conveying the kind of inspired enthusiasm lacking from a life of routine-day-job. Read an account of last night's events here and a feature on the documentaries here.

Triple X Surfing

Funny, I thought my book cover was fairly innocuous and kind of cute.

Sick but Worldly

Henry is one well-traveled 1990 Ford Taurus.

Originally from Torrance, California, Henry has been to Santa Monica, San Francisco, Yosemite, Death Valley, Las Vegas, Grand Canyon, Bryce, Arches National Park, Goblin Valley, Four Corners, Monument Valley, Moab, New Mexico, Austin, New Orleans, Skyline Drive, Harper's Ferry, and New York City. He's visited every campground in New Jersey and crept around the backroads of the Pine Barrens. He's visited remote campgrounds in Virginia. He's been with me since April 22, 2002. Fifty-thousand miles ago.

And after all this, he decided to crap out last night—in the rain—in central Jersey, in a mall parking lot.

"ARF!"* I said, leaning my head onto the steering wheel.

Henry started right up. Huh?

Then today, he got cranky again. Click click but no turning over.

"It's the starter," said the AAA guy, who showed up to watch Henry suddenly start on his own. "Just keep trying. Sometimes these starters keep working for months while they go bad."

I drove Henry straight home to his garage. I'll take him in to my mechanic on Friday. If he'll be kind enough to start.




*"Arf" is not exactly what I said, but it seems more G-rated.

Samburu Pride

I was impressed by this young Samburu woman in Kenya in 2001. She carried herself with 'tude.

And now I really am done organizing my negatives from 2001. The years-since images fit in way fewer boxes. Slipping them all into sleeves and binders should go a lot faster.

Bad Timing

Yesterday, I got an electric bill for $189 for the past month.

Today, at ten minutes of eight in the morning, the window guys showed up. Too late for the December and January electric bills, but in plenty of time for February's. I could have waited for a coupon--the window company regularly sends out discount offers--but who knew when the next coupon would arrive?

They started hammering the ancient windows out while I winced at the thought of any sleeping neighbors. They climbed out into the airshaft, four stories up, leaned against the brick building next door, and ripped out the old sashes.

I couldn't look. I'm afraid of heights, even when it's not me looking down. I just worked at my laptop and tried not to think about the risk two men were taking 40 feet away.

About an hour later, I had--or rather Yancey had as I'm only renting here--three brand new windows. Great! I paid the workers and calculated how much rent I'd owe next month with the window cost taken out.

Then, at about two in the afternoon, I got a coupon in the mail from the window company. "25% off already low prices! Order now!"

Oops.

Verbal Economy

I read in a magazine that Hemingway once wrote a six-word story.

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

What marvelous economy! So much said in spite of being unsaid. As I walked to the train this morning, I pondered how to tell a six-word tale. At work, I challenged Kraiger to come up with his own six-word story.

So far my attempts seem amateurish. I can imply a story, but struggle to complete one. I hope I can come up with one before Kraiger does. Who else wants to give it a try?

You're still here? Wait, don't go!

Heartbroken, she had only his fez.

Super Tuesday

I'm really starting to get into this "normal" life thing. First football and now voting. I was feeling super this morning because I went by the elementary school on Erie Street to cast my primary ballot for Super Tuesday. Such an unspectacular day, normally, but today there are primaries, a ticker-tape NY Giants parade, and my first class in my latest attempt at weekly yoga.

A local real estate agent—one who like so many sold her Hamilton Park place and moved up to the Victorian part of the Heights—was working the polls this morning.

"We'll probably have at least 200 Democrats today," she declared proudly. Then, an afterthought. "We've even had a few Republicans."

An audible gasp. Here?

Reading is Progress, Right?

I was supposed to take January to knock out the Hippo book proposal, once and for all.

Instead of writing books, I read books. It's partially Brett's fault, since his admission of having knocked only one book off his to-be-read pile spurred me to tackle my own pile of books. Which unfortunately gets a little bigger every Sunday, when I visit the one-dollar used book sale at the church down the street. So it's also my fault for not resisting the pull of the used book sale.

Here's what I've gotten through in 2008, when I was supposed to be working on my own book proposal

Eat, Pray, Love. This one was even cheaper than a dollar, since I got it out of Craig's free books pile when he left Egypt. I kept trying to give it back to him as it is autographed to him, but he refused to take it, having finished it over a year ago. My latest plan is to mail it (unmarked) to him at his new office in Princeton.

Battle of the Bands. Steve Buccellato's Tokyopop manga, in which bands have to fight for the right to perform, or rather fighting is part of the performance. I realize that sounds ridiculous, and seems even more so when you see the cover of the four female protagonists hanging out in a hot tub in their bikinis, but it's actually tongue-in-cheek.

Earthlight 1 and Earthlight 2. Stuart's Tokyopop series about kids who go to high school. On the moon.

Around the World in 80 Dates, by Jennifer Cox. Read as part of my research into what other women's "emotional growth through travel" books are out there.

Glory In A Camel's Eye, by Jeffrey Tayler. I like Jeffrey Tayler's books, but this one surprised me because when I finished it and turned it over, an old friend's name (from my creaky old indie rock days) stared at me from the design credits. The book is a great read and the cover design is exceptional. I liked it before I checked the credits.

On Chesil Beach, Ian McEwan. I was flummoxed by the protagonist's actions. "Why doesn't he just apologize? What is his problem?" Could I have brought my own baggage along for the read? Er, uh, maybe.

Yoga for People Who Can't Be Bothered to Do It, by Geoff Dyer. He petulantly argues with touts and admits (gasp) to being jaded and bored. Not even a nod to what he surely knows is expected of him in a travel book. Who said any book classified as travel has to be whimsical, insightful, or about an internal voyage mirroredbythephysicalevoyagewithnoblesavages blah blah blah? I loved it. I bet he got brutalized on Amazon.

February. That's the month I'll finish my book proposal. No more reading until I have a proposal to show others.

Australian Secrets

In January, 2002, I moved to Australia. To Turbo's house. It was the end of MariesWorldTour. I'd sold my East Village condo before leaving town a year before and my possessions were all in storage. I was homeless and had an Australian boyfriend. So off I went.

And on Australia Day, Turbo made a big deal over something called ANZAC biscuits. I'd never heard of these coconut and golden syrup cookies, but oh-how-I-would. He didn't actually remember how to bake them initially. He called his mother and she walked him through it. But he remembered the key secret to a good batch, and showed me. I took over the ANZAC duties after that, using a recipe from the local paper and his key secret to eventually surpass him. My ANZACs were better than his. Ha.

Today, six winters later, I'm going to a Superbowl Party. I don't care about football and I'm certainly not interested in beer, so this is a hazardous undertaking at best. I *do* like Underdog (the hero) and underdogs (in this case, the New York Giants), and I'm told there won't be much actual football watching, so maybe I'll be only a bit alienated instead of baffled.

I just finished mixing the dough for the ANZAC biscuits. They will be my contribution to the party. They're kind of like Samoas without the chocolate or caramel. Except Samoas aren't always called Samoas. Sometimes they are called Caramel deLites, which just annoys me because of the stupid spelling.

I tried avoiding the key secret. I tried mixing my ANZAC dough with a wooden spoon, but my dough was crumbly and not cohesive. I sighed and resigned myself to Turbo's secret. I washed my hands and plunged them into the dough.

The key secret to ANZAC biscuits is to mix the dough with your hands.

Scraps of Cairo

It might seem a bit funny that Craig brought me a bar napkin, a coaster, and a matchbook from his recent trip to Cairo.

But the Flamenco Hotel was my home for three months. I expected to be back there already by now. I left some things under my desk in my Dokki office, since I'd need them when I got back.

I'm settled now, and when the big boss recently said "I heard you wanted to go back to Cairo," I told him that I did not.

So here I am. JC. Renting from Yancey. Seven minutes from Greenwich Village by train. The passport has gone into the fireproof lockbox, along with the deed to my garage and my car title. And instead of being in Cairo, I have a matchbook, a coaster, and a bar napkin. And a return ticket from Barcelona to Cairo for March.